


Doors

by ClaraRabit



Series: Trauma Verse [2]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Character Development, Hallucinations, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 04:59:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12204348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraRabit/pseuds/ClaraRabit
Summary: "It all started with that door. An old, dusty wooden door with an unreasonable amount of locks on it. He knew past it was the rickety staircase that had more splinters on it than smooth wood, and the stone floor that felt like ice no matter the time of year. But it didn't belong here. Not in this metal hallway with its too-bright florescent lights and armored guards."{Someone uses a telepath to recreate Victor's past prisons and it's a long road to recovery from there.}





	1. Chapter 1

{ **WARNING: This chapter contains torture both psychological and physical.**

If this ain't your thing, you should probably switch to a different fic cause feels is all you're getting here.}

 

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   It all started with that door. An old, dusty wooden door with an unreasonable amount of locks on it. He knew past it was the rickety staircase that had more splinters on it than smooth wood, and the stone floor that felt like ice no matter the time of year. But it didn't belong here. Not in this metal hallway with its too-bright florescent lights and armored guards.

   He tried to fight when they pulled him towards it by the chains on his wrists and neck, but they hit him with the painful taser sticks they carried around; They'd drag him by his ankles if they had to. And he felt like a weak little kid again with how scared he felt. He almost felt like crying, but that was one thing he had resolved never to do again.

   They threw him down those stairs, shutting the door, and he tried his damndest to sink his nails into the wall and railing and just  _ not fall _ , but he couldn't get a grip. His head slammed into the stone wall at the bottom and he heard his skull crack a bit before he felt it. It disoriented him and for a second he forgot where he was. Forgot that it was just a duplicate of the room he'd spent years in. Forgot his resolve not to cry.

   He rushed back up the stairs in a desperate panic to get out. But no amount of pounding and scratching at the door could break it down. The locks shook, but that was all. He begged, bargained, pleaded until he lost his voice. He grew tired, and slumped against the door before looking back down the stairs and resigning himself to the fact that he could only descend.

   Whether it were descending into the dark basement or into insanity, there was no real difference.

   With uneven breaths, he climbed back down the old wood staircase and looked around with a sense of helplessness settling in his stomach. Almost mechanically, he dragged himself to the corner and curled up, waiting for his mind to grant him the reprieve that was sleep while the cold settled into his bones.

 

   When he woke up, not quite knowing how long it'd been as there was no light to tell the time, he found the old chains off and a new, much more familiar one tethering his wrists to a pipe. He let out a quiet sob when he heard the door creak, fully aware of how this played out.

   He was too distraught to remember who the man was that came down the stairs. His brain only supplied him with the face that matched his surroundings.

   “ _ Papa, s’il vous plaît, je suis désolé _ …” He whispered, and got a dangerous and unnerving smile in response. The man took something out of his pocket and grabbed his face before he could see what it was. He had a rather good idea what it could be, though, as fingers pressed hard between his jaws and he felt something on one of his teeth.

   Within an instant, he could register nothing but pain. He struggled, his wrists cutting open on the rusted iron shackles, but was quickly forced to hold his head still as another tooth was pulled. Then another, and another, until all of the unusually sharp teeth had been removed and his mouth filled with blood. Tears stung his eyes, and he could barely breathe.

   The soft clattering noise of those teeth hitting the floor echoed in his ears and he hoped he'd be allowed to lower his head so the taste of iron would stop filling his lungs in place of air, but he was held there until he could feel unconsciousness pull at his already skewed and limited perception. Footsteps, a torrent of liquid hitting the ground, and the door closing were all he heard before he blacked out.

 

   He was slapped awake the next time, his throat feeling dry and flakes of red still coming up when he coughed. He could already feel the ache of the teeth growing back.

   He was pulled up by his hair and his face was slammed against the wall, the feeling of bone cracking making him nauseous, and a boot was slammed down on his leg. He let out a cry when the bones snapped. He opened his eyes blearily when he was dropped to the floor and saw the wooden stick before it collided with his side.

   After what felt like hours, he could feel the broken bones in his chest and legs shift, and the bruises threatened to make him throw up every time he moved. He was finally put out of his misery when a boot came down on his head until his eyes rolled back in his head and he stopped breathing for a moment. 

 

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	2. Chapter 2

 {The warning from the last chapter still applies. Please turn back if it ain't your jam.

Also, comments are a great way to motivate me to write more stuff! So if you like a thing I write, comment and I'll literally die for you}

 

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  The days went on, and he had no idea how many passed. He could feel starvation and dehydration taking hold, and he could barely focus on anything other than the pain. He babbled and slurred most of the time, stuttering the words he grew up with. He couldn't even think in english anymore, the language he'd grown used to.

   All his promises to behave and his pleas for it to stop went unanswered until he simply stopped trying.

   The first time he woke up on his own. The thought never occurred to him that it could be a chance to escape. He simply sat up, with quite a bit of effort as one of his arms was barely healing, pulled his knees up to his chest, and put his head down.

   After a while, he heard the door open and footsteps on the stairs, but they were lighter than he remembered. He figured he was imagining it. He blocked everything out, waiting for the pain.

   Instead, he heard another set of steps down the stairs, this time heavier. A lot heavier. The stairs creaked in protest under the weight, but they were too quick for someone that heavy.

   There was a pause and he almost drifted back into unconsciousness, but a boot to his side lightly nudged him awake. He panicked, breathing becoming shallower and quicker, and mumbled incoherent apologies in french as he put his arms over his head.

   There was hushed conversation above him and something electrical. He flinched, thinking it'd be one of those little boxes he remembered from somewhere, but nothing came. There was an odd noise and then a smell like something burning.

   After a few moments, if felt like he was pulled through rushing water against the current. Solid ground met him on the other side, but if felt like his stomach had been left behind. It was a good thing it had been empty in the first place.

   It felt like someone picked him up, and set him down on something soft, but he was too dazed to care. 

   He just kept waiting for pain.

   And he would wait until darkness clouded his already blurred vision and he fell into restless sleep again.

 

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	3. Chapter 3

{My girlfriend and I call this the Good Boy™ AU. Because it fixes the fact that in canon Logan is pretty fucking stupid when it comes to other people.

 **WARNING: This chapter contains brief descriptions of medical torture and drowning.** }

 

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   When he woke up, he was in a glass cube in a lab or something. He didn't care. It was probably just another nightmare anyway. He'd had a lot where he was dissected, made to watch as cold hands rearranged his organs and poked at his heart. Some dreams he had were ones where he would be put in a cage for people to watch, others about downing in a sea of blood with shadowed hands pulling him down. Ones about crawling through corpses with a leash around his neck.

   He wasn't expecting to see the door on the other side of the room open and for his brother to walk through.

   Sitting up, he prepared for the worst with empty eyes. To be sneered at and left alone again. It had to be a dream, after all. But his brother looked right at him. He even looked a bit confused.

   He remembered the faces of the few people who followed him in, but not the names. He could barely even remember his own name, let alone other people's.

   A man in a wheelchair rolled up to the glass between them and seemed to be talking, but he couldn't make sense of the words. It took a few minutes to realize the man was speaking english.

   He tried to remember how to reply, but all his brain supplied were insults; And it connected those with pain and the thought of being hurt made his throat feel tight. It felt like he couldn't get enough air, and he raised a hand to see if something was choking him. There was nothing there.

   The people on the other side of the glass looked panicked and confused, one of them rushing over to the box and doing something he couldn't see that caused that side of the cube to disappear.

   He couldn't tell which one it was, since his vision was starting to blur, but he could feel them pull his hands away as he started to mumble apologies in french. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was begging not to go back. He didn't want to wake up in the basement again.

 

   “What the  _ hell _ was that?” Logan yelled more than asked, and Ororo shot him a glare from where she was lying the now unconscious Victor down again.

   “That was a panic attack. He hyperventilated so much he passed out from lack of oxygen.” The professor supplied, making his way towards the small cot in the holding cell they'd put their former enemy in.

   “Panic Attack?  _ He _ had a panic attack?”

   Xavier leveled a look at Logan, silently indicating that this was not the time nor place. Ororo moved out of the way for the wheelchair-bound man so that he could put a hand to their unconscious houseguest’s head. It only took a few moments for the telepath to see what he needed to.

   “He's been through months of psychological and physical trauma. A panic attack like that was likely the best case scenario.” He informed, looking a bit sick. “Whomever was running that facility used a telepath to create an exact replica of a room he experienced a near deadly amount of abuse in. It's not surprising he'd be in such an uneven emotional state.”

   The weather witch put a hand to her mentor's shoulder, reassuring him.

   “Do you know what he was saying, Professor? It was all so jumbled I couldn't understand it.” She asked as he left the glass cube.

   “He was speaking french. Many people revert to their first language when so extremely distraught.” He replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have reason to believe he doesn't know what's real at the moment. Ororo, would you stay here to monitor him?”

   She gave a nod, following him out of the box before closing the door to it again. As she pulled up a chair to sit in, she saw the professor motion for Logan to follow him out.

 

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End file.
